


When the beating of your heart echoes the beating of the drums

by aseriesofessays



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: I don't know what to call this, Music, sorry idk i don't know what this is ahah, technical terms for music, there's a lotta music in this, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 09:27:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7971748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aseriesofessays/pseuds/aseriesofessays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not that Grantaire's mad, because he's not. (Probably.)</p><p>It's just that the world's a radio station and he's halfway in between two frequencies. It's just that he's always that trumpet that forgets to kick on D and he's always that trombone that slurs his note down the slide and he's the solo piano whose hands are shaking so hard they slip accidentals and trembling pauses wherever they can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the beating of your heart echoes the beating of the drums

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know what this is at all in any sort of sense except it's the first thing i've written in around six months because i'm currently struggling with some writers block indeed and oh boy, it shows

There is a wavelength that Grantaire can never seem to tune into.

It's not that he's broken, it's not that he's jittering and smashed and wondering what to do and what to say at any given moment, spinning, it's not _like_ that, but-

But he's just a little out of tune. He's just a little bit too sharp or too flat, -15 (or -50, on bad days) cents when everyone else is at zero or maybe -5, not enough to be noticed but enough to feel that, maybe, something's... off. And he can bend his pitch down to match, mostly, but everyone has their different tone (Jehan all soft and warm and airy, like a flute, and Bahorel's brassy and loud and confident like a trombone, and Bossuet's fumbling and apologetic and kind like a bassoon) and he knows he changes every time (when he's with Cosette he's mellow and muted like a french horn, when he's with Marius he plays a counter because Marius is a piccolo and he's not joining him up there) except, _except_.

Sometimes _god_ , he's so tired of the whole charade- maybe his mouth is sore, maybe his fingers are raw, maybe his head aches from the noise noise _noise_. And everyone's playing their orchestra, Enjolras is the melody of course because he's the trumpet (brassy and loud and annoying, god damn it, but lovely) and there's Combeferre and Courfeyrac on percussion and everyone's gorgeously in tune and _perfect_ and Grantaire comes fumbling in and he hits the sour note. Or he just doesn't play at all, because he doesn't want to be conspicuous, or there's too many people to match himself too and so he chooses Enjolras and holds on for dear life and bites and snaps and-

It doesn't work. He tries to compensate with crescendos and fortissimo and sforzando, _fuck_ , and he plays _marcato_ and he plays _loud_ and it

doesn't

work.

\---

It's exhausting. His stomach hurts and his ears ring with it- the trumpet soars and he's not meant to soar with it and he's not meant to bring it down but he tries (maybe there's conductor in his ear that's telling him to) and it's _exhausting_.

Sometimes he stops trying.

Joly- sweet violin Joly- comes over and lays a gentle hand on his shoulder and Grantaire knows what to do with this. There's a melody, high and trembling and tender, in his head, and he accompanies it on piano and makes Joly smile and maybe this is what happens after the symphony is over, it's something to hurry the guests out the door, and Grantaire's head hurts so much.

It never goes quiet.

And it's not that there's music playing in it at all times but there's notes plucking themselves out, or church bells ringing, or someone singing something over and over and over again and he can't quite make it out (runs, warm ups? The lips, the teeth, the tip of the tongue). But it's not always music.

He makes sense of it in musical terms, calls the bad days rubato and pesante because god damn it he'll be pretentious till the end and there are lacuna's and- and it helps, sort of, that there are ways to describe it. Bad days are slow, like Baroque, or bad days are burning fast, singing along like a damn piccolo (he hates piccolo), and that's how it goes. (Good days are... good days aren't, actually. He doesn't really have good days). And no one knows because he doesn't tell anyone.

It's not that there are voices in his head- it's just there's so very much of everything, crammed up there.

And alcohol helps.

Well. Alcohol mutes it, at least. When he's so drunk he can't see straight he also can't sound out all those long words (who can say 'pizzicato' when they're drunk, even if his fingers are tapping the syllables out dryly on the bar and he can only imagine Enjolras's solo trumpet accompanying him and- no).

And alcohol- drugs, medicine when he can afford it- gives him perfect pitch. A bottle of beer is a tuning fork is his hand and throwing his head back to laugh is tapping it against a table and letting the note ring free. It softens his too sharp smile and mutes his blaring laugh and his eyes aren't mad, they're smiling and so. Alcohol helps. Maybe he has a problem, by now.

\--

It's not that Grantaire's mad, because he's not. (Probably.)

It's just that the world's a radio station and he's halfway in between two frequencies. It's just that he's always that trumpet that forgets to kick on D and he's always that trombone that slurs his note down the slide and he's the solo piano whose hands are shaking so hard they slip accidentals and trembling pauses wherever they can. He's just _wrong_ , something about him is always _wrong_ , and the rest of the band winces and looks away tries desperately to make the crowd see- that wasn't them, it was him, it was _him_. Awkward, clumsy Grantaire, trying his best and laughing it off like he messes up on purpose.

Grantaire's just a little bit off.

And the problem is he loves it anyway, loves the orchestra and the opera and the symphony and whatever he's relating people to today, he loves being around the bright violins and pretty horns and syrupy cellos. He loves the noise and he loves people but sometimes he wishes that he could be a member of the audience, for once. That doesn't work, obviously, everyone alive is a member of the band, but damn. He _wishes_.

Every day he's preforming a solo in front of a crowd, or a soli as the case may be- he lives his life on that edge, fight or flight making his hands tremble and his lips slip from the mouthpiece before he can get it under control. Joly calls it anxiety but Grantaire prefers stage fright, because that implies something temporary- screw Shakespeare with the world is a fucking stage, sometimes there are moments when he has a whole block of rests and he can sit down and the world puts itself to rights, without a Grantaire in the middle of it screwing it all up. (Sometimes Grantaire thinks he should just quit. Bad days, indeed.)

\--

It's not something he tells people about- he grumbles out a 'you're sharp, Apollo' when Enjolras gets too heated and Grantaire's tipsy enough his tongue is loose, or he pats Cosette on the shoulder and gives her a sodden grin and a 'lovely solo, darling, clear as bells', and sometimes he shuts his eyes tight and claps his hands over his ears and tries to breathe past the percussion in his head. Cymbals bang over Joly's soothing murmurs and the meeting carries on tentatively behind it, and eventually the cacophony eases off into a soft, gentle, lullaby of a melody.

It's not something he tells people about, but he thinks they know anyway.

\--

There's something not quite right in his head, and Grantaire could compose symphonies off of it, but he doesn't. He sticks with painting it out, humming along to the beat- a woman singing warm ups, a beginning pianist tentatively plucking out their first notes, the mournful hum of a solo violin- and that's quite enough for him.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu at lesgrandtears.tumblr.com if you'd like


End file.
